Ankyra Sound imma break that birdy's neck

The world was his oyster. He was built big and strong, passionate, funny, well-trained. . . Why should he not have it all his own way? But he'd gotten complacent. He had let myriad opportunities slip by. Now he found himself far from home, unhappy, stuck between a rock and a hard place.

He had forgotten that he was the goddamn master of his own goddamn fate.

And he could make things better for his children, too.

All the great qualities listed above would only aid him in this noble endeavor. However, there was one thing he had always lacked that he would need in order to make it work: patience. Patience, patience. His Achilles' heel. To sit and wait. . .that was torture. But there'd be some sitting and waiting, probably a lot of it, before he could enjoy the fruits of his labor.

He left shortly after his conversation with the pups, leaving no word but with them. Should he die, he would simply vanish, his fate unknown. But he didn't mean to die. He meant to make things right. He plotted each step as he traveled down the mountains, across the flatlands, over the moors.

He felt the sting of saltwater in his nostrils and felt as if he could breathe for the first time in weeks.

Verx pulled to a halt at the edge of the forest and gave a lilting howl for whomever led this pack, whether it be Blackhead or some other fucker. Called, and then lowered his head, doing his best to look contrite, broken. The mass of scar tissue on his neck, only barely healed, definitely helped make him seem quite piteous.

Well, pity away, motherfuckers.